Nightly
by effies-scrapbook
Summary: Haymitch/Effie drabble. - "She'd feel his lips on her forehead, and she'd hear a ragged voice whisper, 'I'm here, sweetheart.'"


**warning:** angsty Haymitch/Effie drabble. post-mockingjay. semi-graphical mentions of torture. enjoy!

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><p><strong>Nightly<strong>

_"There is no feeling more comforting and consoling than knowing you are right next to the one you love."_

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><p>There was something deeply mysterious about the night. How, in one single change of the hour, one rising moon can alter a mood. The night brought her nightmares. The night brought her memories. The night brought her everything she did not want. Even more so, the night was always the same, as if her mind ran on a schedule.<p>

Vivid imagery was always her weakness, even when Effie was young. She would always remember things clearly, with the sharpest and and detailed parts clear in her mind. Fast forward twenty years or so and now, when the sky fell dark, everything she went through during the rebellion flashed across her mind in jarring, violent phases.

It was awful every night. The phantom burning of what was thought to be extinguished agony would shoot up her body, the lashes too real to be imaginary. Why was it that she could relive these things so easily? Why could she only remember the bad?

At times, she'd find herself gasping for oxygen, the desperation rung clear and true, but then the transitory feeling of drowning would pass after a few minutes. But then the pure dread, the terrifying realization of the reality and the sudden train of thought rolling through her tumbled mind that this had happened before was what kept her sobbing at night. The Peacekeeper taking her by the hair and dunking her head into a barrel of ice cold water, leaving her to blubber and resist his hold to come up for air...everything about it was too much...

Or what about the whippings? The stinging of a leathered, black rope —_ crack!_ — slamming against flesh. The feeling of the layered skin cells peeling off her and the rivers of red staining her uniformed clothing. The blood was only to be "stanched" by an intense, foreign pain that came in the form of rubbing alcohol. They were one of the worst, powerful memories still. She would sit up straight, her breath hitching in her throat as she would sob for mercy.

Then, she'd remember the little things. Days without food. Water. When the peacekeepers would throw her against the wall just to see her brittle bones break. The disgusting sight of her scarred, bruised face in the murky, tepid pipe water. The temptation to tell them everything in order to keep herself from hurting was probably the most disturbing memory. How she would physically bite her tongue from screaming out words of confessional truths to her merciless captors.

It was all too much for her to bear alone, without anything or anybody. She would think she was back in her cell again. She'd panic, hyperventilating and sobbing and grabbing at the things around her to rip apart into minuscule pieces before she could grant herself the permission to destroy herself.

And then, she'd feel someone pull her close to a warm being, a muscled arm slink around her waist. She'd stop breaking apart her picture frames and ripping the bedsheets and relax. Her face would find its way to a rising-and-falling chest, and like clockwork, she'd bury her face into his wrinkled shirt. Her left hand would grip his shoulder while the other would entangle its fingers with his.

She'd feel lips on her forehead, and she'd hear a ragged voice whisper, "_I'm here, sweetheart_." When she felt brave enough, she would open her eyes, and she'd always see his eyelids closed, but then his grey orbs would blink open and give her a sleepy assurance. Effie would let out a relieved sigh, nuzzling her head into the crook of his neck before she could doze peacefully again.

In the morning, when the sun granted her serenity for the rest of daylight, she'd wake up before him. She'd lean over and kiss him on the lips, which, if it wasn't routine, would surprise her when he'd kiss back. Sometimes softly, sometimes roughly, but today was one of those romantic days. He tasted like sherry and chocolate, an acquired taste that he was lucky she liked.

After he'd press a few more chaste kisses to her lips, their foreheads would touch and they'd stare at each other. Fingers would meet each other and lace themselves into a lock. Morning treated them both well.

She'd smile, faltering a deathly silent, "I'm sorry..."

He'd chuckle, only playfully before he'd press his head against her shoulder. "Don't worry about it," he'd say. "I'm not leaving anytime soon. I like you too much."

"Like?" she'd tease.

He'd press his lips against her shoulder before clarifying, "_Love_."

It was like clockwork. It wasn't him with nightmares anymore, it was her. But it made him happy to know that he could make her feel safe. Maybe not forever every time he'd try, but long enough for her to sleep peacefully for the night.

He'd do anything for her. Anything to have her daylight kisses and see her smile in the morning. Anything for Effie.

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><p><strong>an: **short, and sweet, possibly? review!


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